


The Twelve Dates of Christmas

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, SanSan Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: Sansa's been looking for love in all the wrong places.  Can the stars guide her towards what she really wants?For the SanSan Secret Santa 2019
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 46
Kudos: 202





	The Twelve Dates of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mathsisfun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathsisfun/gifts).



> The prompt was 'celestial navigation' and for some reason my brain went here lol
> 
> Many many thanks to 8Clarify8 who was a most excellent sounding-board and plot-wrangler. Really could not have done it without you!

“Alright Melisandre,“ Sansa hummed cheerfully to herself as she opened the email. “Let’s see what you have to say.”

“Who?”

She jumped at the question, turning with a gasp to find her roommate staring down his nose at her. Or _glaring_ down his nose at her. Ugh. She’d forgotten he was home. 

“My horoscope.” 

He snorted. “You read that crap?”

“Only sometimes,” she said defensively, though the truth was she read it every day and had since she was a teenager. Because… well, why not? It was a complicated world out there, and as far as Sansa was concerned this was just modern day celestial navigation, finding her way using the stars just like they used to. 

And besides, this was special-- a personalized set of horoscopes 'just in time for Christmas,' focusing on her ‘deepest desire,’ sent ‘only when needed most.’ Sansa had no real idea what those marketing points meant, but that hadn’t stopped her from signing up and paying for it almost as soon as she’d seen the advertisement on her Tumblr dash. 

She’d expected some sort of confirmation immediately, was concerned when it didn’t come. But she supposed that was part of the whole ‘when needed most’ package, so she’d simply waited it out. And now she had finally gotten an email, just as an audience appeared.

“Okay then,” Sandor rasped and motioned at her phone with his chin. “What’s it say?”

Sansa balked. It wasn’t really any of his business, and it wasn’t like they were friends. But the way he’d crossed his arms and leaned against the counter felt like a challenge-- like he fully expected her to protest and keep it a secret, to blush and be embarrassed. Stubborn as the man obviously was, Sansa was even more stubborn. So she opened the email and read the advice aloud if only to spite him. 

_“True love can come from anywhere, dear Virgo. Open your eyes and your heart and you’ll find what you’re looking for. Your lucky number is 12.”_

“What does it mean?”

She wasn't entirely sure, to be honest, but wasn’t about to say so. 

“Isn’t it _obvious?”_ she said instead.

“No?” he drawled sarcastically. “What’s the lucky number thing?”

“For the lottery. Duh.”

He rolled his eyes but said no more, thank god, just left her standing alone in the kitchen while she pondered the words she’d just read. 

It was true that she _had_ been looking for love. And it _would_ be absolutely perfect to find love for Christmas, but... _open your eyes and your heart?_ That was more than a little generic. And honestly, she always tried to keep an open mind with the men she dated. But she supposed she could be even _more_ open? Somehow? 

Only one way to find out, she decided, and resolved that very moment to say yes to any man that asked her out. 

* * *

  
**♫♫♫ On the first date of Christmas, my true love gave to me… ♫♫♫  
**

_Beauty is within reach, seen not with your eyes but with your heart. Your lucky number is 12._

“Do you like my watch?” Joffrey asked her. “TAG Heuer, baby, paid more than most people pay for a car.”

Sansa smiled and admired the accessory, told him that it looked good on him if only because she was supposed to. But her words were as hollow as the conversation. 

Joffrey was handsome, no one could deny that. Charming, too, and when he smiled at her it was like the sun shining. She’d been thrilled when he asked her out, had said yes immediately and with as much cool as she was able to muster. 

But she’d never met anyone so absorbed with their own looks as Joff.

Sansa thought she looked pretty nice, too, though she didn’t constantly check her hair in the bowl of her spoon. Nor did she ogle the wait staff when they passed, or lob insults at the overweight patrons under her breath like Joffrey did. Truth be told, he was… kind of a jerk, concerned with only the most superficial things in life. Combined with his utterly vapid and inane topics of conversation it was starting to seem like good looks were the only thing he had going for him. So when she escaped with only a kiss on the cheek and a promise to call, she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Date?” Sandor asked when she got home and tossed her keys on the counter. 

“Yep.”

“He someone your horoscope told you to go out with?”

“I would have said yes anyway,” she defended herself. “The horoscope was a coincidence.”

“Why, what’d it say?”

She didn’t want to tell him it was about looking for the beauty in people; surely he would never approve.

“I don’t remember, exactly. Something about beauty only being skin deep.”

“Revolutionary,” he drawled sarcastically, then wandered away without another word.

* * *

**♫♫♫ On the Second Date of Christmas my true love gave to me… ♫♫♫  
**

_Don’t settle for a man who shows no interest in you as he’ll show no interest in your relationship, either. Your lucky number is 12._

  
Sansa scraped at the sauce on her plate with a spoon, bored with the meal, but Loras didn’t seem to notice. He’d been talking pretty steadily for an hour and a half by then, covering every accolade of his entire life, from his Boy Scout rank (Eagle) to his college honors (summa cum laude) to his current salary (higher than his coworkers, he was sure). She hadn’t said more than 5 words the whole time, other than ordering her meal and drink, and even then he had talked right through it, undeterred by the distraction. 

Loras was pretty nice, though; and handsome, and successful, but so blasted self-absorbed she couldn’t help but think about her most current horoscope. He fit the definition of ‘not interested’ to a T.

 _Ask me a question,_ she silently ordered him as he prattled on and on and on about himself. _Ask how my day was, ask how my meal was, ask me what I want for Christmas. Anything._

He never did, though, and it was with a sigh of relief that she paid her portion of the check then followed him to the exit, out to the sidewalk to end the date. 

“I really like talking to you, Sansa,” Loras hummed, smiling down at her. _I’m sure you do._ “I’ll call you.”

It didn’t really sound like he meant it. Not that she minded much. As far as she was concerned the big win of the evening was that he hadn't tried to kiss her good night. 

“How’d it go?” Sandor shouted from the living room when she finally arrived home from that infernal date.

“Don’t ask,” she grumbled and went to the bathroom to wash her face.

* * *

**♫♫♫ On the third date of Christmas my true love gave to me… ♫♫♫  
**

_Live for the moment is great advice, but don’t forget to plan for a future, too. Your lucky number is 12._

  
“Another date?”

"Yeah.” 

She’d just gotten home from the damn thing, went straight to the fridge to grab the Riesling; Sandor’s brow shot up when she chugged straight from the bottle. 

“What was wrong with this one?”

“Hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

She groaned; rolled her eyes. 

“He has no hobbies, no ambitions, no dreams, no nothing. I’ve never met someone who wanted so little out of life, it was bizarre. And the more I think about it the more I...” 

The complaint trailed off when her eyes landed on a stack of books-- _text_ books that were definitely not hers. 

“Are you in school?”

“Nah, just trying to get all my certifications in, maybe find some sub-contracting gigs.” He shrugged like it was no big deal. “We’ll see.”

“Cool,” she said dumbly, her miserable date forgotten, because this new information hit her funny. It actually _did_ sound kinda cool, that was true, but she’d had no idea he was even doing it.

* * *

**♫♫♫ On the fourth date of Christmas my true love gave to me… ♫♫♫  
**

_We’re all on this earth together, dear Virgo, and all of us equal. Your lucky number is 12._

  
Did it mean something, Sansa wondered, that Harry was so rude to the waitstaff? He’d been awfully nice to _her_ , of course-- held her chair and listened to her talk, let her taste his dessert. But he was just a little bit snappish with the host, a little abrasive to the waitress, and when a busboy went by with a tray Harry held out the breadbasket to block his way.

“Can we get some bread? Like, today?” 

Sansa feigned illness and took an Uber home.

“How was your star-crossed lover?” Sandor asked later when she walked through the door.

“That’s not what that means,” she grumbled. 

“Whatever. What happened?”

“I think, uh…” She bit her lip, pondered the evening, wondered ever-so-briefly why she’d decided to even talk to him about it. “I think he’s kinda judgmental.”

“Isn’t _everyone_ kinda judgmental?”

Well she supposed _that_ was true-- there was always _some_ amount of judging going on when it came to dating; how could there not be? 

“I guess,” she shrugged. “I'm definitely judging _him.”_

“And _I’m_ judging _you_ ,” he rasped, playfully waggling a finger at her. 

“Whatever,” she laughed and promptly put Harry out of her head.

* * *

**♫♫♫ On the fifth date of Christmas my true love gave to me… ♫♫♫  
**

_Beware the ‘nice guy;’ he’s not always as nice as he seems. Your lucky number is 12._

  
Arys liked to do nice things for people, he told her. Liked to surprise people, make them happy. It was one of his best qualities, or so he said. Repeatedly.

Before they even got to the restaurant he'd guided her under a doorway where mistletoe was hung, then gallantly kissed her hand. It would have been cute, she supposed, if he hadn't pointed out that any other man would have kissed her cheek.

At dinner he ordered a bottle of Malbec since she had said she liked it. But he didn’t have to point out that he’d gotten the pricier one, didn’t have to constantly cite the carafe on the table as proof of this thoughtfulness. 

After dinner he’d led her to a horse-drawn carriage. It was expensive, he said, but worth it to make her happy, though he did mention that she could try to act just a little more grateful for his efforts. 

Eventually Sansa got the impression that he wasn’t doing things just to be nice but because he thought it might earn him something. Unfortunately for him, though, she’d already decided that would never be happening. So when he asked to see her again, she declined.

“What?” he asked, genuinely confused. “But… I got the carriage and everything.” 

Yeah, that did it. 

Later, standing in the kitchen and waiting for her turn to use the stove, she watched her roommate scramble some eggs and thought how there was no way anyone would ever accuse Sandor Clegane of being a nice guy with ulterior motives.

“What are you _staring_ at?” he grumbled, glaring in her direction.

She bit her lip; shook her head. “Nothing.”

* * *

**♫♫♫ On the sixth date of Christmas my true love gave to me... ♫♫♫**

_A confident man is sexy, but you’ll be happier with a man who respects your wishes. Your lucky number is 12._

  
Ramsay was an interesting character-- unusual sense of style, strange hobbies, not particularly handsome though he exuded a confidence that she could see people being attracted to. But Ramsay was also a little… controlling. Okay Ramsay was a LOT controlling. He’d ordered her meal, her drink, her dessert, all with no input from her. When she’d asked for another basket of bread he’d overruled her and worse, the waitress actually listened to him. Too bad, since she didn’t like the venison he’d ordered for her, could only poke at it and ignore her growling stomach while images of Bambi frolicked in her head. 

At the end of the evening he told her they would go out again on Friday. When she told him she had plans, he told her to cancel them. Sansa cancelled _him_ instead then hurried home as fast as she could, grateful she’d never given him her address. 

“What’s that?” she asked, walking through the door and being met with a savory aroma that made her mouth water. 

“Kadhaiwala,” he answered, and held up a bowl. “Want some?”

Yeah, actually, she kinda did; her empty stomach was begging for any food at the moment and what he had sincerely offered smelled almost too good to pass up. But that was _his_ food, and she was not his problem. 

“No, thank you,” she said, hoping she didn’t offend him, but he only shrugged. 

“Suit yourself.”

* * *

**♫♫♫ On the seventh date of Christmas my true love gave to me... ♫♫♫  
**

_The true measure of a man is how he reacts when things go wrong. Your lucky number is 12._

  
Sansa had never met anyone as glum as Edd Tollett. Every single inconvenience, whether big (unexpected rain) or small (the salt shaker fell over), he took like a personal affront, like the universe was singling him out for torment. Even when they were just talking he seemed to favor stories where he had failed in some way. She’d spent all evening reassuring him that everything was fine-- he was just fine, really!-- but the date was so exhausting she knew she’d never be able to do it again. 

“I’m not surprised,” he said later when she told him they worked better as friends. “I wouldn’t want to date me, either.”

 _So_ exhausting. 

Sandor was watching TV when she got home, showed her a baffled look when she sat on the couch beside him. 

“If a girl didn’t want to date you, how would you react?”

“ _Most_ girls don’t want to date me,” he rasped.

“And?”

“It is what it is,” he shrugged. “What am I supposed to do? Pout?”

He turned his attention back to the TV like she wasn’t even sitting there. 

* * *

**♫♫♫ On the eight date of Christmas my true love gave to me… ♫♫♫  
**

_Life is full of laughter; don’t settle for a man who can’t laugh at himself. Your lucky number is 12._

  
“Stop moving,” she grumbled and bit her lip, focused on the task before picking up the thread of conversation. “It’s gonna sound silly when I explain it.”

“Always does.”

“He took me to the skating rink. It was _his_ idea, so it’s not like I forced him into it. But it turns out… not a good skater. As soon as he stood up his feet shot out from under him, knocked over a snowman on his way down. And well, I couldn't help it... I laughed.” 

“Okay?”

“And he got mad! Said I was making fun of him, which was… I don’t even know. It was funny! If you had seen it, you would have laughed. Waddya think?”

Sandor glanced at himself in the mirror she offered, then gave her a hard look. 

“I think the next time you ask to play with my hair, the answer will be no.”

She couldn’t help but giggle at that, and not just because he was oh-so-serious with his threat but because the French braid really wasn't doing him any favors. It was funny, though, and at the moment it was really all that mattered.

* * *

**♫♫♫ On the ninth date of Christmas my true love gave to me… ♫♫♫  
**

_Flames that burn too bright will burn a relationship out before it can even get started. Look for a spark of passion and fan the flames; it will last longer. Your lucky number is 12._

  
Sansa was alone in the kitchen, sitting on the counter eating candy cane ice cream straight out of the carton when her roommate materialized, broody as always. 

“Date?”

“Yep.”

“What was wrong with this one?”

“Nothing,” she shook her head. “There was nothing at all wrong with him. He was nice and considerate, smart and funny, successful and good looking.” 

“But?”

“I just didn’t _feel_ anything,” she sighed and licked the spoon, morose. “It was like hanging out with one of my brothers.” 

“So what’s with the ice cream?”

Sansa bit her lip, tried to think how to explain that the ice cream was just her way of assuaging her guilty feelings. Unlike the other guys, when Theon said he would call she could tell he meant it. And unlike the other guys, she had no real ill-will towards him, couldn’t even claim ‘self-preservation’ when declining any future dates. Before she could answer, though, Sandor put his thumb on her chin, pulled her lip from between her teeth just as her eyes met his.

“Stop that,” he rasped firmly, eyes serious, and something new went through her, something that stole her breath. For a heartbeat heat flared between them. But then he pulled his hand away and the fire was gone. “Maybe it’s time to admit your bullshit horoscope isn’t working.”

Sansa took a breath, hoping he didn’t notice how shaky it was.

“Yeah, maybe,” she agreed, and took another bite of ice cream.

* * *

**♫♫♫ On the tenth date of Christmas my true love gave to me… ♫♫♫  
**

_Smart men are sexy, but men who can admit they have something to learn are even sexier. Your lucky number is 12._

  
Sansa drove home from her latest date, glumly replaying the night’s conversation in her head, unsure if her horoscope was preventing her from making a mistake or just leading her astray in the first place. Because while it seemed like she was told to go out with these men, the message to _not_ go out with them always seemed suspiciously timely. 

When the first woman coined the phrase ‘mansplaining’ she no doubt had Lancel in mind. The man never ever stopped correcting her-- even on things he clearly knew nothing about-- and somehow decided he was an expert on just about everything.

Like climate change, which he’d read an article on once. Or GMOs, which he’d watched a documentary on once. Or discrimination in the workplace, which he’d listened to a podcast on once, and apparently learned everything there was to know. 

Sansa could only blink at him in silence, stunned that this man was giving her advice on how to negotiate a raise from a woman’s perspective. If she hadn’t already decided she didn't want to see him again, that lecture pretty much sealed the deal. 

When she got home from her date she marched straight to the living room without even removing her jacket, stood in front of her roommate so he couldn’t see the TV when she flung her question at him.

“Do you have any advice on how to deal with sex discrimination?”

Sandor spit his beer back into the bottle. 

“What the fuck? Do I _look_ like I’m qualified to answer that question?”

Rude as he was about it, he wasn’t wrong, and she’d spun on a heel to walk away from him, satisfied with his answer.

“Why, is something going on?” he shouted after her.

“No, just curious,” she shouted back, but the fact that he’d even asked made her smile. 

* * *

**♫♫♫ On the eleventh date of Christmas my true love gave to me… ♫♫♫  
**

_There’s something admirable about a man who has a positive relationship with honesty. Your lucky number is 12._

  
Petyr was the ideal man, in theory. In practice... not so much. She usually kept her distance-- kept _him_ at a distance-- certain of what he was after and even more certain she would never ever give it to him. But it felt like more than a coincidence to see him on the day of her latest horoscope, proudly telling her about the audit he’d just passed with flying colors. 

So when he asked if she wanted to go to breakfast the next day, it felt like the stars were telling her to say _yes_. She was supposed to be keeping an open mind, wasn’t she? And breakfast was a low-expectations event-- just a step up from getting coffee, really. What was the worst that could happen?

It wasn’t until she was sitting across from him that she realized what breakfast with a man implied, and she wondered if he’d done that on purpose. When he took her home later he walked her up, then sort of invited himself in… only to come face-to-scowling-face with her roommate. 

“Is this your brother?” Petyr asked, effectively labeling Sandor as ‘not competition’ with a single well-placed question. 

Sandor’s only response was an angry little huff through his nose. He did not leave the room, though, just stood at the door with his arms crossed, and did not look away when Petyr kissed her on the cheek and said his goodbyes. 

“Who was that?” he growled as soon as Petyr left. “Another one of your ‘the stars told me to do it’ bullshit dates?”

It _was_ , and he knew it, so there was no point in denying it.

“My horoscope said that honesty is the best policy.” Or something like that, she was no longer totally sure. “He’s a CPA, he _has_ to be honest.”

“Seemed kinda shady to me.” 

Sansa rolled her eyes. “You barely interacted, how could you come to that conclusion?”

“From the _face_ you made when he kissed you on the cheek.” 

Sansa could only blink at him; that _was_ a little presumptuous, now that he mentioned it. 

“You don't have to go out with every creep that asks, you know.”

“I know that. I’m just doing it for fun.”

“Uh huh. And what are today’s marching orders?”

She hadn’t looked yet, actually, hadn’t had a chance. And besides, maybe there wasn’t even a horoscope for today, maybe she didn’t need one yet. She didn’t _feel_ like she needed any new advice. 

Melisandre clearly disagreed, though, because there in her emails was a brand new horoscope. And with Sandor glaring down at her, she went ahead and read it out loud even though she really should have known better. 

_“You’re no damsel-in-distress, but a man who is there when you need him is a man worth considering. Your lucky number is 12.”_

“Okay,” Sandor rasped, irritated. “What does that mean?”

“It means… ugh, it means I have to go out with him again.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Sansa sighed, defeated. She hadn’t wanted to tell him this, but it seemed like the only way to make him understand.

“I’ve been having trouble paying my bills, okay? He asked if I needed anything and I told him, and he said he had a job opening I was qualified for. A better-paying job. Doesn’t that sound like being there for me when I need it?

“No, it sounds like he made it up so that you’d feel like you owe him something.”

Sansa winced. That hadn’t occurred to her... but now that he’d pointed it out it seemed far too likely that he was right. Not that she could ever admit it. 

“Why do you have to see the worst in everyone?”

“Cause people suck. And every single one of those guys you’re forcing yourself to go out with…”

“I’m not forcing myself, I’m doing it cause I want to.”

“You _just fucking said_ you had to go out with him again.”

“But I didn’t…” 

Before she could finish turning around the words trailed off to a panicked little _‘eep!’_ as all Sansa’s years of dance lessons failed her and she spun wildly to the ground, slamming her chin on the linoleum. 

“Fuck,” Sandor hissed, rushing to her side. “Hold on, hold on, hold on…”

Sansa let him guide her to a sitting position, to pull her close to him and inspect the injury, too stunned to think. It didn’t even hurt yet, though she knew it would eventually. At the moment all she could think about was the blood on the floor, the blood on her hands, the blood on his shirt... every paper towel he pressed to her chin came back drenched in crime-scene levels of blood. 

When he grabbed his keys and lifted her into his arms she didn’t even protest, knew where they were going and why and knew that was the smartest course of action. Still, she couldn’t help but feel like a useless idiot, sitting in silence in the passenger seat. Only after they arrived at the ER did the pain start to set in.

“I’m sorry,” she told him as he helped her out of the cab of his truck. 

“The fuck are you sorry for?”

“For… I don’t know, for getting hurt, I guess. You just seem so mad….”

He slammed the door, took her by the elbow. “I’m not mad.” 

He didn’t say anything more but he didn’t have to, because she could see the glint of concern in his eyes.

* * *

**♫♫♫ On the twelfth date of Christmas my true love gave to me… ♫♫♫  
**

  
“Coffee.” _thunk_ “Bagel.” _thunk_ “Remote.” _thunk_. 

“God, I’m not _helpless_ ,” she protested. “It’s just a few stitches.”

“Not a big deal,” he grumbled without looking at her. “I’ll be in my room. If you need anything, let me know.” 

“Okay... Sandor?”

He stopped; turned to look at her. “Yeah?”

She wanted to tell him that she was grateful for his help, his calm under pressure, his support. She wanted to tell him she admired his honesty and his consideration, grumbly as it was. She wanted to tell him that she had it all figured out now, and knew what she wanted to do. Instead she just said-

“Will you come sit with me?” 

He hesitated. Considered. Then yielded. 

“Yeah, alright.”

It was easier than she ever thought possible to just be with him, to exist in his space with no pretext, no expectations. He seemed to feel the same way. And later, during one of his trips to the kitchen for snacks, Sansa checked her phone, surprised to see she had an email from Melisandre earlier that morning--

_Sometimes you have to take the dog by the leash, dear Virgo. Your lucky number is 12._

She couldn't help but laugh. Because by then they’d been watching TV for several hours, side by side, the space between them getting smaller and smaller till she was tucked up under his arm, her hand in his. It was the most intimacy she’d had in ages, the _only_ intimacy she even wanted since her chin still hurt and she desperately needed a shower. There would be plenty of time later. Their story was written in the stars, after all-- always had been and always would be. She’d just needed a little help to see it. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1- why Virgo? I did a fic once where Sansa's birthday was right before she went back to university. That's usually late August, which is Virgo, and I had to pick SOMETHING so I figured hey why not?   
> 2- It was actually pretty hard to come up with 11 fellas I wouldn't mind having Sansa reject, especially since I had to assign them unflattering characteristics and didn't want to go there lol. Also hard to come up with 11 reasons to reject them. I wound up Googling 'deal breakers' and 'turn offs' for ideas and rounded out the story from there, adding a few of my own pet peeves.   
> 3- pinkolifant made a comment once about how a man should be able to laugh at himself. That's stuck with me quite a bit, so I incorporated it into this fic (thanks PO!)


End file.
